


Four Weddings and A Funeral

by Adi_mou



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adi_mou/pseuds/Adi_mou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Weddings are never about the bride and groom, weddings are public platforms for dysfunctional families." ― Lisa Kleypas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Weddings and A Funeral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lono](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lono/gifts).



> I think we all know which film is based off of. Ehehe. The storylines are messed up, but I did that on purpose. This is for Lono. Happy Birthday.

 

_1._

It's childishly easy to find him, and that is how she knows how much the whole thing has affected him. He's lying on the cold floor of a disused men's somewhere at the back of the reception hall, a lit cigarette hanging off his lips. His tie is off, the first four buttons of his collar unbuttoned and there are wrinkles on his previously pressed trousers. His suit lies abandoned on top of a rusty sink.

He's wearing an odd combination of a scowl and a pout.

He shouldn't look adorable but he does.

He blows up a cloud of smoke (she wrinkles her nose in distaste) and says, "This is the men's."

She huffs and crosses her arms, resting her back against the closed door. "And you are avoiding me."

He takes a long pull of the cigarette before he retorts, "Tell me,  _Miss_  Hooper, exactly how much champagne have you to drink before you worked up the courage to seek me out?"

She snorts, crossing the room and pulling the cigarette out of his hand. He looks affronted.

"A fair few," she answers, stepping on the still smoking cigarette. "You are avoiding me," she repeats again, an accusatory tone sweeping in.

He stands to loom over her. Two years of knowing him, two years of ensuring that he didn't overdose before she finally managed to make him go to rehab, and she knows this is his key defensive gesture-intimidating her with sheer height and bulk.

"Weddings are despicable," he answers, standing close enough that she can smell the underlying heady scent of  _him_  through the nearly overwhelming smell of smoke. "I'm avoiding every idiot here by default," his breath ghosts over her skin and she tries to fight the shiver that ripples across her skin. Her body tightens.

"And yet you slept with one of them," she snaps, and she would be lying if she did not enjoy the sight of the great Sherlock Holmes rearing back, a faint flush covering his high cheekbones.

"Look at me," she says when he keeps on looking at the sickly green stain of the bathroom tiles. She reaches and gently cups his face, her brown eyes gazing at his ever-shifting green ones. "Please don't do this," she implores. "That night was a mistake. Please, Sherlock, just delete it.  _Delete it._  I want my best friend back."

He looks very young, younger than his twenty-three years, and his slender fingers curl around her wrists, easing them away from his face. Something flashes across his face, before he hides it, his mouth becoming a thin line, almost as it he's biting his cheek. "I don't have friends, Molly Hooper."

That is the first time Sherlock Holmes shatters Molly Hooper's heart. It's not the last.

* * *

_2._

"You had sex with Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Molly scowls and glad there is loud music to drown out his words. She sips her champagne before saying, "None of your damn business."

"Molly, he's old enough to be your father," Sherlock says as if he's stating the weather, casually leaning his chair back and resting his feet on top of the table. "Obviously it did not work out, we wouldn't have been witnesses to his  _third_  re-marriage to his wife, but I'm curious. Was it before or after I came back?"

"Guess." Molly says, wishing she had accepted John's offer for a dance and let Mary babysit him for once.

"I never guess," Sherlock snorts as if the very word insults him. "And insufficient data gives my observation a rather large margin for error. But from this distance," he looks over to look at the DI, currently talking with the new Chief of Police. "I'd say, before I came back. Your emotions were running really high, if I recall correctly, when I was abroad for the first two…no three, and you took solace-,"

"Sherlock," Molly hisses. "Stop it. I was drunk, and he was drunk, it meant nothing. Now stop talking down to me like I'm some sort of  _scarlet woman_ , I'm thirty-four years old and you are not my  _mother_ , dammit!"

Her outburst causes several people to look at their table, alarmed, and she hears Lestrade say, "Sherlock, what did you do now?" and John saying "That's my cue to leave with my five year old," exasperatedly to Mary, but Molly's glaring at the Consulting Detective, because well, the look of complete and utter surprise on his face, while not new to her, is something she would always relish with glee.

Only a handful of people had ever truly stunned Sherlock Holmes into silence, but Molly Hooper held the dubious honor of being the one woman to shock the words right of out him on a regular basis.

* * *

_3._

"Say it," Molly says, curling up in her seat in a tight, protective ball, the rock and fro of the train doing little to ease her rolling stomach. "Just say it already."

The dead man sitting opposite to her did not bother to look up from his newspaper. "Stating the obvious is such a waste of time, Molly."

"Just, just say it," she winces as a particular lurch of the train makes her ribs hurt, and the cake smattered over her arms, face and god knows where, is sticky. She needs to wash and change but right now she wants to wallow in self-pity.

Sherlock looks up from his paper, and frowns. She peers at him through her lashes, and tries to remember the amiable ginger haired young man he had pretended to be just a mere hour ago.

The ginger hair looks good on him, but it's still a bit jarring.

"Molly," Sherlock says in what she thinks is a practiced tone. "You were exceedingly childish, throwing a tantrum like that at your mother's wedding, but I completely understand your sentiment." He pauses, before saying in his regular drawl, "Was that what you wanted?"

What Molly wanted was to get rid of the piece of cake sliding down her chest, but she nodded anyway. "You don't understand the sentiment, but thank you for pretending to pretend that you did."

When she comes back from her somewhat wash (her hair and most of her body is cake free), Sherlock has removed his jacket, neatly folded it, and undone the top buttons of his shirt. His tie is gone.

She's reminded of another wedding in another lifetime, but she forces the memory from her mind.

Her ribs still hurt. She really shouldn't have tackled her new  _step-sister_  like that.

He extends his hand and she stares stupidly at it. He sighs, annoyed, and pulls her next to him, letting her rest her head on his chest. His warmth feels  _nice, but she needs to stop blushing madly like a schoolgirl._

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she revels in the familiarity, she remembers all those nights she cradled him to her chest when he came down from his highs, when his mind had been too much for him and he had clutched at her like a drowning man.

"You were childish. But Molly, if it were me, I would have done far worse," he says in her hair, his breath tickles her skin. "I probably would have revealed that the man your mother is marrying was married four times instead of one, and that his daughter was having an illicit affair with the chauffeur."

She snorts and giggles, making a mental note to tell her mother as soon as everything cooled down. Not that Margaret Hooper ( _now Baxton)_  would believe her. Sherlock's deep chuckle reverberates through her, warming her up more than she thought possible.

" _Tu me manques,"_  Molly whispers; she knows he will know what she means.

He presses another kiss to her hair and stays silent the whole train ride home, though he does not let her go.

He leaves her home the next morning without even saying goodbye.

She calls Greg, goes to the nearest bar, and proceeds to get spectacularly drunk.

* * *

_4._

It nearly kills her when she walks into 221B Baker Street. John and Mrs. Hudson are on the sofa, John's arms around the old woman who looks as if she's too shocked to even shed tears. John has a frown on his face, as if he's equally angry and in mourning, but unable to choose which emotion he feels more.

She understands. He does think his best friend just committed suicide right in front of his eyes.

Greg Lestrade is leaning on the mantelpiece, and Molly sees the telltale signs of a large bruise forming under his right eye. She knows who gave it to him.

Everything makes her feel as if she's intruding, even though when she enters, John has her wrapped up in his arms. She's the first one to break, sobbing into John's shirt. (His shirt still has Sherlock's blood on it. He hasn't been able to bring himself to change.)

Molly knows she does not deserve the support they all give her, she's a lying pig, and she has the man they all are grieving in her bed, sleeping off the painkillers she shot him full of. John Watson will grieve and weep for his best friend, and his limp will return.

He's strong, but she can see that his grief is stronger.

"I finished the autopsy," she whispers into his ear, but does not tell him the results, and she's glad he doesn't ask her, because she knows she will not be able to lie then.

They bury an empty casket the next day.

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper watch from a distance, hidden by the trees.

_And 5._

* * *

She's a vision in white, and he can't take his eyes off of her. He doesn't know what he did to deserve her; he certainly is not a good enough man to deserve an angel. Her jewelry sparkles on her ear and neck, but her eyes are more beautiful than any of them. Besides, the only piece of jewelry he cares about is the diamond resting on her ring finger.

_She is his. And he is hers._

He tries not to get jealous when she dances with DI Lestrade. Lestrade is married, and he's a good man. He really should not cut in, even if she  _is_ his wife.

Fuck it, he's a man and he gets territorial.

"Oh, my dear husband," she giggles as he sweeps her across the dance floor, inching towards the exit. "I hope you won't spend the rest of our marriage baring your teeth at every man who looks at me."

"I didn't bare my teeth at him," he says, pulling her tighter to him, wanting to feel every inch of her body pressed to his. "And we've danced enough, don't you think?"

"You want us to sneak away?" she giggles again, and he assumes it's the champagne and pure happiness that's making her so lightheaded. "Naughty boy. Lead the way, Doctor Watson. I'm dying to see our honeymoon suite."

"Certainly, Mrs. Watson," he says, bowing to her and letting her thread her arm through his.

The moment John Watson keys open the door to his  _I-rented-this-bloody-hotel-room-five-months-ago_  honeymoon suite, he decides then and there he hates Sherlock Holmes.

**From: John Watson**

**Sent: 10:35 pm**

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

_I hate you._

_-J_

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Sent: 10:45 pm**

**To: John Watson**

_You are already leaving for a honeymoon in the morning. Whatever did you need the suite for?_

_-S_

**From: John Watson**

**Sent: 10:47 pm**

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

_For reasons WHICH YOU ALREADY KNOW. I hate you, but it's nice to know you put it my 25000 quid to very good use. :(_

_-J_

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Sent: 10:50 pm**

**To: John Watson**

_Molly would like me to say thank you and that I've already paid for whatever honeymoon you want to go on when you come back from Africa._

_-S_

_P.S: You are a grown man. Stop using such emoticons._

**From Mary Morstan**

**Sent: 11:00 pm**

**To: Molly Hooper**

_Didn't think you had it in you, darling. John is pissed, but tell me, how much convincing did you had to do Sherlock to get him to use the suite? Though I wish you left the windows open, the room smells horrible. Also, what in the world did you do to the coffee-table?_

_-Mxx_

_P.S: Love your guts, and remind me that I owe you a 100 quid._


End file.
